Page 7 of The Blood Rites

“Our Crown, our Unyielding Light asks only this of you—” she continues, one hand lifting slightly towards the dais, though she does not look at him.

“Do not reach beyond your place. Do not seek to take upon yourselves that which you are not meant to carry.”

She pauses, and the drums continue, relentless.

“Do your duty,” she says, almost mournful, “to the Mother Shard... and to those who remain.”

Something in my chest tightens. I don’t like the way she says it.

“Give yourself willingly,” Sera finishes, her smile returning, polished and bright, “and trust that your sacrifice sustains us all.”

She lowers her arms. “Let us begin.”

The words don’t echo. They don’t need to. They fall into place like something closing.

The Blessed move as one, the circle tightening as the lines begin to shift. Around us, the other Offerings move with us, each line drawn towards a waiting pair of hands.

Just like that, we’re no longer watching. We’re part of it.

My line moves forward in slow increments, each step bringing me closer to the centre of the circle. The Blessed work without speaking, moving from one candidate to the next, their hands closing around wrists, fingers settling against the metal as if listening for something beneath it.

A girl ahead of me stiffens the moment they touch her. A flicker of light passes between their hands—brief, sharp enough to make her flinch—a Guardian paints a golden streak across the front of her tunic, then she’s guided away without a word. No explanation, no resistance. She doesn’t even look back.

The next boy takes longer. The Blessed presses harder, holding him there as if waiting for something to answer them. When nothing does, a Guardian steps forward and paints a thick blue mark across his chest. He nods once, jaw tight, and moves on.

Blue. Further testing. My line shifts again, closing the space between me and the Blessed.

A girl a few paces ahead of me starts shaking before they even reach her. When they take her wrists, the light comes stronger this time. The Blessed steps back almost immediately, and the Guardian moves to paint her golden streak with a kind of practiced urgency that makes my stomach turn. Then she’s taken away.

I focus on the ground—boots and stone. Don’t panic. Don’t react.

My hands are damp, so I wipe them against the fabric of my trousers, quick enough that it looks like nothing.

The drums don’t stop. They never stop. My pulse continues to match the rhythm, much faster than it should, as the hum beneath my skin stirs in response, faint and dangerous.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, forcing the feeling down, forcing everything down. Not now.

Bodies move, then stop.

“Next.”

The word lands in front of me, and suddenly there’s nowhere left to look except forward.

I step into the circle.

The Blessed waiting for me is taller than the others, their posture perfectly still. I keep my eyes on their hands as they reach for me, long fingers closing around my wrists, cool and steady against my skin.

For a moment, nothing happens: no light, no flicker. Just their hands and mine.

I feel the pause before I understand it.

They press harder, fingers tightening against the band, and I have the strangest, most disorienting sense that they’re searching for something that isn’t answering. My throat tightens. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to—

They lift my right wrist, angling it towards the light and my pulse spikes.

Don’t—

Their thumb drags slowly along the metal, stopping abruptly when they find the crack.